A Wedding to Remember
by A.N. Clara
Summary: The world prepares for the most anticipated wedding of the century. With rising tensions between America and Belarus, the merger seems to be the only way the two countries can mend their relationship. England knows that this is what America must do, but is he ready to let go? Current events AU. AmeBel, USUK, smut in later chapters
1. Always a Bridesmaid

I had dreamt of this day for many years, many more than I honestly cared to admit, and I imagined that it would have been the single happiest moment of my entire life. It felt that way as I waited at the alter–the simply decorated wooden pulpit standing between me and where the priest was–and grinned at the delicate white flowers that wound around both it and the pews that filled the grand Catholic church I knew I would marry in one day. My heart fluttered nervously in my chest. _Stop being such a girl_, I scolded myself, noting that the bridesmaids were watching me closely with sad eyes. Although I tried to push down the nervousness rising in my throat, it was impossible, and my stomach clenched painfully as my palms sweat.

It was only a matter of time, as I was reminded by the constant but dying murmurs from the bored families seated in the rows before me, appearing as nervous as I was, though not as jittery. Today was going to change everything. That thought left a lingering haze of energy in the air; everyone felt it, the tingling sensation of anticipation that ran up their spines as they awaited the start of the most beautiful wedding any of them had ever seen. I made sure that every insignificant detail down to the pristine white silk runner that fell evenly down the aisle was perfect.

There was a gentle tap on my shoulder and I turned to France with an angry roll of my eyes. How America had convinced me into letting him be a part of the wedding, I would never know. The frog's lips turned up so that his usual smirk was in place, but his eyes were softer and kinder than I was accustomed to. I did not let that get to me, however, and glared back with obvious distaste, frustrated that he would not leave me alone in my bliss.

"What is it now?"

France huffed like he regretted his attempt to be civil. "Oh, Angleterre, 'ow I wish you'd be more pleasant on this day! We are celebrating amore, non?"

"I'm well aware, thank you very much," I snapped quietly.

"I only wanted to wish you good luck."

I sighed, swallowing a bitter remark. "Thank you."

I peered past France to look at the other groomsmen, but there seemed to be one missing. Five minutes ago, I swore that there were three men standing next to me. Now I saw only France and Japan, who were currently America's closest friends. Suddenly aware of the mistake, I frantically looked around for the man that had gone missing in action, whispering my concern to France, only for a timid, nearly indiscernible voice to respond.

"I-I'm here."

"Who?"

"I'm Canada," the voice said sadly.

France scowled at me, pulling the shy country into his arms and stroking his long blond hair in comfort. "Imbecile!"

"Oh, right! I must apologize, Canada. I didn't see you there."

He did not seem offended as though he were used to being so blatantly ignored and I took a calming breath to relieve the mounting stress. I closed my eyes and brushed my hair to the side, much to the liking of Hungary who sat in the front row along with her Germanic family, which consisted of her ex-husband, Austria, as well as her current one, and brother-in-law Germany. There were also excited giggles from the bridesmaids opposite of me. I internally chuckled at how they were _definitely_ barking up the wrong tree. Seychelles, Ukraine and the other girls knew that, but they still blushed when I smiled at them.

Everyone could hardly sit still and the tensions were great despite the way I meticulously placed the other countries as to prevent the arguments we all knew would break out. It was the anticipation, I noted, that had us on edge. I, too, was trying not to provoke the nation on my left since he was on his best behavior. France would never dare to ruin a wedding, even with the possibility of annoying me in the process, so I had to mind my manners as well. I was not going to be responsible for the failure of this day, not if the frog could resist the insurmountable temptation directly in front of him.

My foot was tapping rapidly as I watched the doorway, waiting for America to appear like I knew he would. Part of me wished he wouldn't. I had spent nearly a century fretting over a day that was uncertain to even occur and as it finally arrived, I found myself distantly apprehensive, figuring that it would somehow go wrong. America's happiness meant the world to me. If I did something that upset him in any way, especially on today of all days, I would never forgive myself.

Whoever spoiled this wedding was going to pay, and every last country was aware of that. Even Italy, whose voice normally rang out more loudly than the rest, was inaudible as he chatted excitedly with his blond fiancé. He fidgeted constantly much to the irritation of his older brother, but Spain was able to take the brunt of the Italy's anger with a broad smile on his face that said he was more than happy to do so. Prussia made a lewd comment into the ear of his own younger sibling with an added elbow to his ribs that made Germany flush red with embarrassment. He was punished with a sharp jab in the stomach from his unamused wife and glowered at her with cerise eyes.

Amongst the more refined guests were the Nordics, seated as far from the closest countries as they could get, though I would not group the animated Denmark with the other well-behaved nations as he was pestering Norway noisily. Sweden and Finland, along with their adopted son and my annoying brat of a brother, Sealand, were watching the Dane reproachfully. Iceland appeared unfazed, he and Hong Kong exchanging notes like they were in a primary school classroom. The teenaged Asian country was nowhere near his relatives that sat with China, and by association, Russia on my right.

The music, which was just a simple melody in the background, grew steadily louder with the promise of something exciting, causing the entire room to fall silent at once. I swept the room with my eyes, taking in the familiar faces of friends and foes alike, though every memory I was reminded of was not pleasant. Every country of the world had shown up, to America's pleasure. Even my family, consisting of some red-headed men older than myself, had taken time to make an appearance, though they were among the handful that did not turn their heads toward the entryway. Of course this was typical, especially of Scotland, who looked irked that he didn't have a drink in his hand. I chewed on my cheek in annoyance.

Finally, the blond, boisterous country I loved with all of my heart emerged with the biggest grin I had ever seen plastered on his face. He had his arms linked with Belarus, who looked lovely in her long dress. I could not manage to watch her any longer when the man I loved was in tow. While she looked around for her big brother Russia, I beamed back at America as we made eye contact from across the long room. It was as though we were the only nations left on Earth. America and I were meant to be together, I knew it in that moment, my heart skipping several beats in my constricting chest. He looked dashing in his classic black suit and white dress shirt, even though his crimson tie was crooked around his neck. I was glad I was able to talk him out of the gaudy red, white, and blue number he begged me to let him wear.

They made it up the few steps, Belarus joining the band of bridesmaids and America stopped to face me, his glittering blue eyes gazing down lovingly. I grasped his tie between my surprisingly steady hands, adjusting it properly. "You look very handsome, America," I said happily.

"Thanks, dude. You look great, too."

"I'm… I'm so proud of you." My voice cracked a bit with the threat of tears.

He embraced me then, a little too tightly, but I did not complain. "Awe, c'mon, bro. You're not getting mushy with me, are you?"

America released me from the bone-crushing hug and flashed me one final smile that made my heart melt. Then the man of my dreams turned around and faced someone who was not me, taking the hands of the woman he was going to marry, while diminishing my heart to ash. It was easy to pretend that we were to marry, too easy, if I were being completely honest, and the dose of reality was nearly enough to drive me mad. All I wanted was for America to be happy, so I resumed smiling like nothing was wrong, like I was not dying inside. Everyone save the man I loved knew how I felt as he recited his promise to forever love and cherish the country before him.

While Belarus returned her vows with an unsmiling mouth, I thought to myself about how America had been the only one to ever actually hurt me in such a way. _All I want is my freedom!_ The rain I heard was nonexistent for the sun outside was shining brighter than before and the birds were chirping merrily. _From this day forward, consider me independent. _It was of that memory that I remembered the pitter-patter of rain of the ground and the icy liquid dripping from my numb body as I sobbed on my knees; but the pain, that was no longer a memory. That was very real and excruciating in every way imaginable. _I remember when you were great_.

The priest asked if anyone was opposed to the union of the nations, waiting patiently as everyone's eyes were trained on me. France had warned me beforehand not to object, no matter how I felt about America, but there was no need. He was happy. That was all that mattered to me. I could see it in his eyes, hear it in his voice, feel it in my very soul how much he loved Belarus. Nothing in this world could make me voice that no, I did not agree and I never would. With a single kiss, my soul mate was bound eternally to the frightening woman whose hand he held tightly. He looked to me with an overjoyed expression that said _look, I did it!_ And indeed, he had.

After America swept Belarus off her feet, quite literally, the other countries followed them out to where the reception would be held. The bridesmaids did not speak to me, but simply nodded–their apologies expressed thoroughly through only their eyes–and linked arms with their respective groomsmen, somberly making their way toward the exit. France and I were the only men left in the room when I finally sank to my knees. I fisted my hair until it threatened to rip right off my head, battling against the hideous weeping that was bound to follow.

"_Why, dammit, why!?_" The tears ran down my face in a warm, fractured stream.

"America is no longer a child, Angelterre," France responded softly. "'e is all grown up now. 'e must make his own decisions."

"It isn't fair!"

"True love is painful, oui? But it is worth it. One day you will find it again, mon cher."

I did not believe a word of what he said. For centuries, I had loved America and he alone. To find what I felt for him with someone else would be impossible. I knew that I would continue loving him no matter how many more decades I had to wait. Even if I were to dissolve before that happened, I would be as stubborn as Prussia, remaining here until I felt that I had done everything in my power to win his heart. Though it was mainly prideful jealousy, I knew with every fibre of my being that his marriage would not last. It was only a matter of time before Belarus and America became the next Austria-Hungary. This cheered me up enough to not be such a complete mess and I returned to my feet.

"We should get going," I said finally, though I was still trembling slightly, rubbing my eyes with the heels of my hands. "What's a reception without the Best Man?"

"You are a good friend to 'im. I would be proud if you weren't such an intolerable ass."

"Well, you're an insufferable prat!" Playful insults aside, I reluctantly tailed France to the reception.

Even though the love of my life was sharing the first dance with his new wife, elated with the start of what he thought would be a happy, everlasting marriage, I managed to return the grin he shot me every once in a while with a heavy heart. He seemed so overcome with joy that I could not bear to ruin his day. That made my melancholy smile a little more genuine as others joined him on the floor to waltz the night away. I knew that one day America and I would be together. I just had to be patient.

* * *

A/N: This story is based on current events involving Crimea, hence the references I will be making to the rising tensions between the US and Russia, and Russia and Ukraine in future chapters.


	2. Best Man's Blunder

The reception that followed was wild blend of cultural rituals held in an exquisite, spacious restaurant, as was the Belarusian custom. Ukraine had arranged everything from that point on, assuring me that it would be perfect, and said that I would only muss up her sister's traditions. I could honestly say that I wanted nothing to do with it once the ceremony was completed, quite content with sulking off to the side as far from the other nations as I could get. Willingly, I surrendered this duty to her, relieved that I would not have to incorporate anything of Belarus' into the wedding. It was petty, yes, and absolutely rude. Perhaps I could have put more effort into behaving like a gentleman.

I never knew that Belarusian weddings could be so _American_. Performers of all kinds–acrobats, contortionists, and the like–were dispersed throughout the restaurant to provide entertainment for every corner of the room. More food than could possibly be eaten by the attending guests, enough to actually sicken me, was throwing off clouds of steam in a buffet lining one of the walls. The music was loud and upbeat so that it could even be heard outside. What ever happened to simple, quiet weddings? My head was pounding before I could get a hold of a drink.

The love of my life was now married to a woman he had terrible relations with and I could not bear to take heed as to what that meant for the future. America was happy now–newlyweds usually are in the beginning–but I knew that would change. There would come a day when he would be unhappy with his new life, so miserable that he'd be pushed to the point of breaking. It was only a matter of time until I would find him with red-rimmed eyes and hunched shoulders, the spark of his luminescent soul diminished to a faint glow, signs that he was being put through hell. Though this thought should have given me some sort of solace, it only managed to fill me with dread. I did not want to see him hurt, even if it was at the cost of accepting his everlasting marriage to Belarus.

Leaving me to my distressful thoughts of divorce and suffering, France had gone off to flirt shamelessly with whoever he could get his hands on, and I occasionally caught glimpses of him chatting up beautiful women and men alike from across the room. He offered to keep me company, but I had refused–because he was a filthy, low-life frog, of course. I did not need him to babysit me like I was some whiny brat. While the proposition had insulted me, I should have accepted it. Even though I could hold my liquor better than any of the others, I couldn't be sure that I would not embarrass myself with the copious amounts I planned on drinking.

It was never my intention to interact with anyone, least of all America, but I found myself entangled in a situation that I simply could not contest to. As I knocked back my second Whiskey of the night in the first several minutes of the reception, I was being eyed by the only country I was purposefully avoiding. I sighed with a shutter running through my core, an aftermath of the crying I had done, and stayed put, well aware that he was not going to let me go easily.

"England! Dude, where have you been? I've been looking for you forever!"

I did not mention that he hadn't seen me in perhaps ten minutes, fifteen at most. "What is it, America?" I asked tiredly. Today I wished that he would just go away.

"We're supposed to dance!" He stopped within arm's reach of me, beaming in a way that was infectious. When I shot him back a questioning look, his smile faltered a bit. "Well, I'm supposed to dance with my parents… You're the closest thing I have to family. Belarus has Russia and Ukraine, I have you."

Despite having raised him, I probably should have felt at least a bit offended that he thought of me like a father, but I couldn't think poorly of America, not when he desperately wanted me to make him happy. That was the one thing I could do for him and he seemed adamant about it, so I reluctantly obliged with a nod. He excitedly bounded toward the centre of the room with me in tow, not another word needing to be passed between us.

Their eyes were on me. The world, consisting of every country who knew I was in love with the very handsome, very married man that held my hand, was watching us. I had failed to notice that I missed America's first dance with his wife, not that I cared to watch such a thing. He didn't mind, or at least he did not let me know if it bothered him, so I figured that I was okay. Between the love of my life getting married and his "brother" forgetting a minor milestone of his wedding, I think I had him beat for who had the right to be more upset.

America positioned his hand in mine and put the other firmly against my waist once we had reached the centre of the crowd where Belarus was already swaying with her frantic-looking brother. I blushed at the contact and set my left hand upon his shoulder. More gracefully than I had anticipated, he began to lead us in a basic yet fluid waltz, comfortably shifting his feet in time with the mellow music. He was gauging my reaction, smiling down at me with joy in his gorgeous blue eyes. It nearly took my breath away.

"I learned, like you told me to," America began to say cheerily when I had to look away.

_Learnt_, I thought back exasperatingly, but otherwise did not broach the subject of grammar. "Congratulations," I snapped back.

"What's wrong?"

I did not know how I could begin to explain everything that was wrong with the circumstances at hand. How could I possibly tell him that I should have been the one he shared the first dance with, kissed at the altar, and vowed to spend the rest of his immortal life with? He would not understand that, though I was pretending to be indifferent, it warmed my heart to see that he took my advice, and the simplistic box-step he learnt made me happier than anything else had in the longest time. America could never know that I had been in love with him for many years, nor that I fell a little harder every time I saw him.

A tremor ran down my spine as I caught America frown at me. There was a fair amount of concern, as well as some traces of empathy and guilt in his expression. He squeezed my hand gently. I wasn't positive if it was meant to reassure me that everything would be alright without him even knowing what was going on, or to ask if I was okay; either way, it didn't matter. I was not fine and I could not be certain when I finally would be.

When I looked around for something other than America to stare at, I saw that Belarus was dancing with Ukraine, crowns of flowers adorning both of their heads. The elder was grinning happily at her little sister who agitatedly searched for Russia, unamused that he had run away. A golden band was worn on what would be the ring finger on her right hand, glinting dully in the artificial light. I thought it odd that Belarusians displayed their wedding rings on the other hand, just like Americans drove on the wrong side of the road. That is when I noticed the feeling of America's identical ring between our clasped fingers. I froze.

"Hey, are you okay? You look upset. What's wrong?" he asked again.

The song that was playing before ended a moment later and I pulled away from America, shaking my head. He reached out to touch my shoulder as I turned around, I brushed him off, not bothering to look back. "I am quite alright, thank you."

What I wanted to say was that I was tired of playing out my pathetic fantasies, pretending that I had married him instead of Belarus. He needed to know how desperately I tried to win his heart in order to comprehend what I was feeling. Everyone, even his wife, was aware of all the effort, time, and patience I put into loving him. I risked losing everything by falling in love with America, including myself. This wasn't a choice; I did not give consent to the arrangement of loving a married man. My emotions were frayed, having suffered more than their fair share of the abuse he unknowingly put me through.

France was standing at the front of the crowd that surrounded the dance floor, a drink in each hand. He had stalled there momentarily while returning to his date to see what happened. I seized one of the glasses from him with an appalling lack of manners, downing the contents in a single gulp. Every pair of eyes in the room was glued to the back of my skull, I could feel their heavy gazes linger on the nape of my neck, and their voices died down until only the faint resonance of the music could be heard as I walked out of the reception.

Knowing that I should not have caused a scene like that, but being already too numb to care, I tossed the empty glass aside with the finesse of a complete arsehole. It shattered loudly against the floor. I then snatched a nearly full bottle of Whiskey from the bar, bitterly ignoring the complaint of a nearby bartender, since I would need more than a few drinks to drown my sorrows.

I expected someone, anyone would attempt to console me, which is why I sat on the curb outside of the restaurant. No one followed me, however. They all knew what had happened. England went and ruined the wedding because he had a silly crush on the groom. That was not true, I told myself. I had not ruined the wedding, nor the reception. It was a small tantrum they were accustomed to me throwing by now, what with my short temper.

Ashamed of myself for everything–for disrupting the party, for loving a wedded man, for not expressing my feelings before it was too late–I hung my head, trying not to feel sorry for myself. Try as I may, I was too selfish to forget my woes. This was meant to be the happiest day of America's life and instead of acting the part of his Best Man, his closest friend, I had thrown a fit, all because Belarus was wearing his ring.

Telling myself that the arrangement was temporary no longer eased my troubled mind. The maddening mantra had long since been worn down to nothing and served as a reminder to how far I had delved into insanity. Madness–that is what it was, there was no denying that any longer.

My mental state had never been questionable before America came into my life. He was not the initial cause of my insanity but the catalyst, the part that set it in motion. I always fell ill at the mention of his Independence Day, and persistently argued with him, for no other purpose than to receive his attention. None of it was rational or based on sound judgment. I was as daft as they came.

Maybe I should have stayed home. America would have been wounded that I did not attend, but that didn't matter now. It would have been better than putting on the halfhearted charade only to throw it out the window five minutes later. France was right for once, though I loathed to concede the notion. I should not have left England for a night of self-inflicted torture. Even if America was happy, I did not deserve this.

Although I should not have expected it, and most definitely not have been smug about it, I knew that America would eventually leave to find me. I strained to convince myself that I didn't want him to. He ought to stay at his wedding reception, I repeated several times. That meant nothing to me. I knew what I really wanted, and that was for America to abandon his wife to comfort me. It was extremely self-centered. It wasn't like me to care.

While he did come after me, he did not by any means hurry. By the time America had sat down next to me on the curb, I was well past inebriated, having knocked back a significant fraction of the Whiskey I'd stolen. I was slipping into a tumultuous pit of emotion I found myself in more often than I cared to admit. Either rage or misery produced the tears rolling down my cheeks, I was unsure. Perhaps it was both; I could rarely distinguish between the two.

America kept his distance at first. He knew how unpredictable I could be when I was pissed, in both senses of the word. As though he did not know where to start, he tentatively sipped at the water glass in his hand. It was too late to prevent him from seeing me cry, however, I still brushed the wetness from my face too roughly with my hands. My eyes were as sore as my throat, which was dry from bawling and the alcohol.

"You shouldn't be out here," I grumbled, though probably not as eloquently as I thought I had in my drunken haze.

A raised eyebrow was the only accusation I received. He shrugged. "Neither should you."

Something was wrong, other than me, of course. America had never sat so still or gone for so long without saying something obnoxious. I must have truly upset him to warrant the stagnant silence. The idea made me cringe. My intent was not to make him act like the anti-America sitting before me. After half a minute passed, he finally broke the peace, if you could call it that.

"If you don't tell me what's up, I can't fix what I did, or say I'm sorry."

My eyebrows knitted together in confusion. "What?"

"Whatever I did, bro, I'm sorry. I don't know what made you freak like that, but I'm so sorry."

That made me feel exponentially worse about the whole predicament. He had done nothing wrong. In fact, from a strategic and economic standpoint, he was doing everything right. His country, his people, and his freedom had to come before all else, just as they always had. I should not have condemned him for bettering himself. America was bordering on World War Three with Russia and he could use all of the allies he could get. The rest of the world was either pairing up, as the rumor went with Germany and Italy, or renewing their allegiances. We were all preparing for war, whether it be with an undercover arms race or a union through marriage.

"Don't apologise to me, America. Save it for your wife."

"I don't know what I did! Just tell me and I'll try to make it right. What did I do?"

My refusal to answer frustrated America. He groaned in annoyance and set his water on the sidewalk so he could take up the Whiskey instead. With a slight gesture of the bottle toward me and a miffed utterance of "cheers", he took a swig. We sat like that awhile, passing the booze between us when it seemed fit, watching the deserted expanse of the parking lot because that was easier than talking about our feelings.

"You're such a stubborn old man sometimes, you know that?"

I did not justify the insult with a reply. He mumbled somewhat after that–I didn't quite catch what he said–something about just admitting what we both knew. At that time, I was tired and drunk, uninterested in the mumbling of the nation beside me. Whatever he had to say must not have been important enough to voice aloud, so I let it go.

America was observing the stars with a contemplative expression that told me he was thinking about more than constellations, glassy eyes staring at everything the universe had to offer without seeing anything at all. When I, too, glanced upward, the sky was spinning, nothing more than a swirling vortex of light. It was enough to make me dizzy. I returned to looking straight ahead, though the spinning did not cease. My stomach was doing flips already and it didn't help that America had shifted slightly closer.

I should have taken that time to apologise to America while I still had my wits about me, but I was now entirely too intoxicated to care about what I had done. Conceivably I was too sloshed to pay attention to the way America watched me carefully out of the corner of his eye with a knowing smile gracing his lips, how close he began to move toward me, and even when his hand brushed mine. None of that registered in my mind.

The next thing I knew, I was waking up.


	3. What I've Done

There was no denying that I was smashed to the point of no return. Before I even had the chance to blackout, I knew that I would not have any recollection of the night. Were someone to have asked me how I felt about this before the wedding, I would have been overjoyed since I would not have to live with the memory of the worst night of my life–at least, in this millennia. I would feel no pain over the details of dancing with America or watching him have the time of his life with his spouse. It would have been perfect. Perfect, except for one thing: I wouldn't remember our first kiss.

We were both drunk, I more so than he was, and for some reason, the rest of the world was under the impression that it was a good idea to leave us alone. For all they knew, we could have wandered into traffic and nearly gotten ourselves killed, or become angry and waged war with each other. Apparently none of them cared about that so long as they could play matchmaker. Well, it worked.

America yawned as loudly as he could, stretching his arms out wide as though he would try to wrap one around my shoulders like all teenage boys do in his terrible movies. He seemed to think better of it as his hand skimmed across my back and I shot him a glare. I was irritable and did not take kindly to being touched. With a detestable laugh, he grinned my way, pulling his limbs back to his sides.

"_Yanno_," he slurred so that some of his words ran together, "I've missed youa lot."

I huffed in annoyance. "Why would you?"

It took several long seconds for America to gather his thoughts. He stared intently at the moon, deep in thought over what it was that he saw in me. I could not find anything redeemable about myself after the night we had. Maybe he was having the same difficulty.

"'Cause… you're England!"

"Of bloody course, ah'm England! What're you, daft?"

"No, it's 'cause you're you. Well, maybe not now, you kinda sound like Scotland now."

That offended me more than anything else. I crossed my arms over my chest and pouted, childishly refusing to speak to him any longer. My brother and I were nothing alike! Not even in a drunken state could we be compared. I continued to grouse about this to myself for some time before I even cared to look at the nation beside me.

America was flustered, grumbling aloud to himself about learning when to shut up, obviously more upset by what he said than I was. I was curious. Why was he beating himself up over something so stupid? He has said worse than that to me before. How could this be any poorer conduct than when he celebrated my death? Or when he showed off his military planes only to proclaim that he would use them against me?

I could not keep the faint sneer off of my face for long. America took notice of how I openly mocked his distress, though I could not identify the root of my delight. My mind was long gone at this point, so I did not try to find reason in a madman's logic, even if said madman happened to be me. All I did know is that America was looking at me with those pathetic blue eyes that never ceased to make me swoon.

"Even though you're a short, angry, old man," he began, much to my dissatisfaction, "you're my bes' friend. Oh, an' you really can't cook, but hat's okay, too. And there's _those_ things." He limply gestured toward my eyebrows with a disconcerting look. "But you're you–I _like_ you."

When I presumed that he could not insult me anymore, I did not mean it as a challenge. The idiot must not have expected this to sound as harsh as it had, which was evident from the way he smiled like he had given me a compliment. I scowled in response.

"_Wanker_."

In truth, his words–the last three anyway–made the whole night from hell seem bearable. Not in a thousand years did I think that I would hear him say that. Perhaps it wasn't exactly what I was anticipating, a heartfelt confession of his undying love for me would have sufficed, but it was the way he said it that made my heart skip a beat. He had turned so that we sat perpendicular to each other, watching me with an inquisitive expression while I thought this over.

We both had secrets that we hid from each other. While most of the world knew mine, America's were another story entirely. He surely was an enigma when it came to matters of the mind; I was unable to understand what he was thinking half of the time. No one save France, and this was only by imaginative assumption, had any clue as to what thoughts this nation was harboring. Everyone thought that he was in love with Belarus. He wasn't at first, but he learnt to love her and what their marriage would do for his country.

It was much to my surprise, then, that I found myself gazing into the eyes of the man I loved under the starlit sky. With such a high volume of alcohol in my system, and my inhibitions virtually nonexistent, there was no tension between us to speak of. Even as America brought his hand to my jaw, which he cradled gently in his moment of unexpected sobriety, the anxiety I had before melted away, my breathing was constant and even, my heart beat steadily. We were the only nations in the world.

He reeled me in closer, closing his eyes as he did so. The Whiskey was evident on his breath, but instead of ruling it as bothersome, it reminded me of the comfort I found in its numbing abilities. With a ridiculous smile plastered on my face, I pressed my lips to his. It was as I had wanted it to be: passionate, tender, and loving.

When his lips parted a moment later, I followed suit, and treasured every second of it. America threaded his fingers through my hair to properly develop the kiss. His tongue sloppily traced my bottom lip and made the blood in my veins boil. I placed a hand at the nape of his neck and the other on his hip, maneuvering to sit on my knees as I leant forward so that I was nearly on his lap.

We were gasping softly and making other intelligible sounds that should not have belonged coming out of our mouths. It was difficult to tell whether the intense heat I felt was from the fervent kissing or if global warming had suddenly set the earth on fire. Everywhere his skin touched mine seared with excitement. I do not recall ever being happier than I was right there, snogging America outside of the restaurant.

With an abrupt realisation, America pulled back and broke our lip lock, he was not smiling. I was perplexed, not that this was a challenging feat with my level of intoxication, and I waited for him to say something. He gradually pressed his hand against my shoulder until I got the hint to back away. I sat down on the curb again and declined to make eye contact with him. My resentment was rivaled only by my humiliation.

"I shouldn't've done that," America whispered sullenly.

I was mortified by the very idea of kissing America and then having him turn me away, let alone living through it. What had I done? Oh my god. _I just went about snogging a married man_. My face fell into my hands and I shook my head rapidly until I was dizzy and close to vomiting. _This cannot be happening_, I thought recurrently. I was a gentleman. I shouldn't have been ready to tear America's clothes off in public, I should not be pursuing a wedded man. Everything was horribly skewed in this picture. What was wrong with me today?

It was he that had initiated the kiss. I should not have been feeling so pathetically wounded, nor should I have blamed myself–it wasn't my fault! No matter how much I tried to convince myself that this was true, these thoughts kept barraging me. He might have started it, but I was the one ready to escalate the kiss into something far more indecent.

"That wasn't fair, England–not to Belarus, and not to you. I'm so sorry."

I glared at him indignantly. "Bloody hell! _This_ isn't fair!"

"I know, I'm sorry." America stood shakily. "Please stay here. Just wait a minute."

Before I could begin to yell every obscene thing I was thinking about him, and express how badly his actions had destroyed me both mentally and emotionally, America had already returned to the restaurant's interior. If it were not for the tears rolling down my face that hindered my vision, I would have gotten up right then and gone home, just as I should have hours ago. There were so many things I should have done differently, but I was too stubborn, too proud to do what was right.

Thankfully, I would not have to remember the heartbreak when I awoke. In that moment, regardless of knowing the price I would pay for my obliviousness, I was glad. The wedding alone was enough to evoke agony equivalent to the Revolutionary War. I did not need yet another painful memory to accompany his face. He was always finding new ways to break my heart.

After a couple minutes of waiting, I passed out. I was not sure how long it was before France returned in place of America. All I did know was that I hated them equally now and would rather gouge my eyes out than stand one moment longer in either of their presences. I could not handle their disapproving gazes that only confirmed that I had made a grave mistake. My conscious was already burdened by my slipup, I did not need them to remind me, too.

France knelt by my side and shook my shoulder a bit to wake me. I blinked against the light that fell through the restaurant's windows and winced. Dazed, I stared up at the night sky for a while, my heart still aching from America's betrayal, though I could not place what he had done anymore. The stars wobbled across the black canvass as though they were drunk. The thought normally would have made me laugh. I squinted at the moon that was already starting to set, glaring at it like it caused my distress. Maybe it did, I didn't know.

The other nation looked down at me with pity–how I hated his fucking smug face, goddamn perfect hair, and how he was overall a stupid frog. After assessing the situation with a brief glance, he motioned for me to stand up, but I wasn't going to do what he wanted me to. I glowered at him and laid dormant.

"I will take you home now, mon lapin."

"No! I won't be going anywhere with you!" France tried to pull me upright and I began thrashing around, flailing my arms and kicking at him. "Unhand me, you–you wanker!"

As difficult as I thought I was being, France easily overpowered me and was able to get us both home by no small miracle. I protested staying at his house–I detested everything about the bloody nation and did not want to sleep under his roof, even for one night–but he refused to return me to England until I was sober. Having drunk what felt like enough Whiskey to keep an elephant tipsy for a week, my opposition became greater. France disregarded my whining for the next several minutes as he tucked me into bed.

I was a mess in every sense of the word. My clothes were rumpled and dappled with grass stains where I had fallen asleep on the ground, my love life was not only nonexistent but impossible, too, and I could not remember what I had done to wind up outside. France assured me that the reception had been uneventful, but I had the sneaking suspicion that he was lying. I knew that, even my alcohol-induced haze, something big had happened.

Without reason, I began clumsily unbuttoning my shirt before removing my jacket so that I wore only a tie. I wiggled out of my dress pants, and then my boxers. My shoes had disappeared some time ago, along with one of my socks. I did not know where they were. France eyed me with amusement, but adverted his gaze to uphold my privacy. That is not what I wanted at all. I was acting out to get his attention, though I couldn't be positive why. That was not true. I was feeling insecure, unloved, and alone in the world, and I knew that, for at least a little while, France could make me forget about all of that.

"Why don't you join me for old time's sake?" I said as seductively as I could manage. It probably sounded far less enticing than it had in my head.

"I don't think so, mon ami."

"And why the hell not!?"

France rolled his eyes and sighed. "You are in love with America–I could never! It is not my place to stand in ze way of love. I will not take advantage of you while you're miserable and drunk–not that you are ever not these things, that is."

I would have shot back an insult as was custom, but became preoccupied by my vision blurring and the room spinning. France laid me down and made up the bed without any more objections from me. I could not focus on hating him while I was so dizzy. He softly pecked each of my cheeks once, saying something about how it had been a long day. It was only moments before I blacked out again, this time for the remainder of the night.


	4. Waking Up

A/N: Thank you to all of my wonderful readers, those of you who reviewed, and especially to those who are sticking with me, even after I regretfully cut corners to keep a constant update schedule. After the last chapter, which I am disappointed that I didn't spend more time on, I have decided not to compromise quality in order to keep up. So far, I have 3 chapters outlined and two more that are mostly written, but I do not know where I'll go from there.

dozefallsdownthestairs – I hope that this chapter lives up to your expectations! Thank you for all of your encouraging reviews that inspired me to take this from a one shot to an actual story. Even though you're probably sick of hearing me say it: thank you!

CrossingTheBoundary – I promise England won't be sad for long. I have to make up for all of the pain I have caused him.

* * *

I was not sure how I ended up in his bed. All I knew was that, in my misguided attempt at numbing the pain in my heart, I had more than my fair share of alcohol–but it was not because I can't hold my liquor!–and my head was pounding furiously, reprimanding me for every single drink I had. After a rather nasty bout of nausea which left me with my head buried in a rubbish bin located conveniently next to the bed, I came to realisation that I never made it home last night.

Nothing about the room I was in looked the least bit familiar, but there was an eerie feeling about the place that had me set on edge. The bed was too large for my liking and the silky golden linens that were meant to be neatly made up were either tangled in my legs from a fitful night's sleep or hanging messily to the floor. Every wall was painted a horrible shade of blue that I swore I recognised. Too many paintings cluttered the small room, and what's worse, they had no central theme; a sinking ship was featured next to an impressionistic flowering field, both of their styles clashing with each other. Whoever decorated this room deserved to be sent to the guillotine, I thought crossly.

I cradled my throbbing head in my hands, wondering how I ended up here, wherever _here_ was. It was not my location alone that had me concerned; the fact that I was stark naked in someone else's bed was also cause for distress. I'd really done it this time. Groaning in annoyance, I turned my head toward a splash of color that caught my attention. An elegant crystal vase that sat upon the nightstand housed a lone crimson rose, which lightly scented the air with its fresh blossom. My mouth automatically set to a grimace.

"_No_," I grumbled aloud, squeezing my eyes shut tightly. "Oh, come now. You have to be joking."

There was nothing funny about this at all. Even as I attempted to laugh it off, assuage my rising fear with denial, a knock on the door, to which I winced in agony, only confirmed what I was dreading. Without me giving it permission to do so, the door was swung open and a mop of long golden hair poked through, smiling blue eyes peering at me with a mixture of pity and amusement. His words were equivalent to nails on a blackboard in my mind, his singsong voice wreaking havoc as it hit my ears.

"_Oh, Angleterre_! Bonjour, mon ami!"

Overwhelmed with the idea of what we had done last night, I berated myself internally, clutching onto both sides of my head like a madman. How stupid could I be? I made a promise to several parties that, not in a thousand years, would I sleep with France–again. One of those aforementioned people was America.

_Oh my god–America_.

My chest constricted suddenly, as did my stomach and I found myself slumped over the bed, vomiting into the waste bin once more. Thankfully I could pass off the tears gathering in my eyes as a product of the grotesque retching. After several long moments of this, I was dry heaving so badly that I could not catch my breath, and I felt like sobbing. France had the decency to turn away from such a pathetic display, though I heard him say something under his breath that sounded like an insult.

"W-what do you w-want, frog?" I was having trouble breathing still, but I was not about to listen to France's gloating, his declarations of getting me into his bed already starting to ring in my ears.

"I came to see 'ow you were. You had a rough night."

I waited for him to continue this thought, anticipating the vulgar jests he would surely make at my expense. He didn't, however. On the contrary, France appeared contrite and acted properly, taking a seat in a hideous velvet chair to my left. He crossed his arms expectantly over his chest. The bile rose in my throat, stinging my raw esophagus and causing me to break eye contact in order to double over, coughing and spitting until there was nothing left to expel.

"Y-you," I accused indignantly.

France raised an eyebrow at me. "Oui?"

"How dare you, t-taking advan–" He did not let me finish the thought.

"I would never! Love is not something you should force on people! It was you who came on to me and I refused. When I turned you away, you were unconscious before I could further argue ze point."

Too proud to apologise, I sat there, dumbstruck, hanging my head at the disgraceful way I had handled the night prior. I could not recall much of the reception after my second drink or so, but I had to have acted a fool. A broken heart and inebriation tend to mix about as well as France and I do. My behavior had to have been atrocious and I expected the worse. It would not have surprised me if I did something extremely embarrassing. What if I said something I shouldn't have?

I looked at France for some insight on last night, but he appeared to be miffed at my accusation and unlikely to help me. Lips pursed, he looked at everything but my face. He did not leave, however, staying put in the ugly chair. I was unsure if that was his way of telling me to get out of his house or if he was being dramatic to amuse himself. We did not speak for a short while as I rubbed the wetness from my eyes, slight tremors making me shiver in short bursts every so often.

My heart still beat faster than average, I knew it was due to my thoughts about America. No matter what I did, I could never keep him off my mind. It had been like that for a century. Though I tried many times, I did not believe that it would change anytime soon. For now, I was terrified of what I could have said to him last night.

"You should go home and get some rest, mon lapin. Tomorrow is another big day."

Though I despised the pet name France used, the content was the important part. Of course I remembered the G7 meeting (due to Russia's temporary suspension) that was being held in Belgium the following day. I never forgot when I would next get to see America. Boring as they were, these meetings were the only times I was able to see him with probable cause. Upon proposing to Belarus, America had less reason to visit me and vice-versa; she became his most valuable ally that day. Our so-called "special relationship" was nothing in comparison to the bond they forged through their union.

"Was I terribly awkward?"

France shrugged helpfully. "No more so than you always are."

He stood and unnecessarily straightened his unrumpled clothes. He supplied me a pitying expression as though he knew exactly what I did last night. I was too afraid to question him, knowing how embarrassing I was likely to be. There was also a smile on his stupid frog face that had me perplexed. His conflicting emotions were ready to drive me up a wall. Maybe I didn't want to know, but the gnawing curiosity at the back of my aching head was telling me that I did.

"What happened?" France actually had the audacity to wink at me.

"We may never know."

After that, he left me to dress so that I could return home and prepare for another fast-approaching day of hell. I made sure to properly thank him for his hospitality, though it physically pained me to do so, because it is what any gentleman should do. He patted my throbbing head in a gesture meant to display his affection. This only managed to make me hate him even more. We bid each other goodbye and I departed with all of my questions left unanswered.

I arrived in England as it was raining–it was usually continuous during this time of year–and sat down to a cup of tea and a bottle of painkillers. The clouds were the colour of my soul, grey with the uncertainty of clearing up. My terrible mood was completely unjustifiable. If I chose to simply stop feeling sorry for myself, I could move on already. I did not foresee myself do so, however, as I was quite content with sulking around the house.

While I stirred my tea, I contemplated last night's events, only to draw a series of blanks. Bits and pieces of the reception came to mind, though some of the more outrageous memories of fire eaters and women that could stand on their heads seemed to be a product of my imagination. I know that I was on the sidelines, naturally, with my hand curled around a glass of Whiskey. The surroundings were at odds with a wedding; performers doing incredible tricks on tables, Russia and Ukraine enjoying each other's company. That must have been part of a dream I had last night. America requested that I do something that I was not entirely comfortable with, but I cannot, for the life of me, discern what it was.

The last fully sensible event I remembered from the prior day was speaking with France after the ceremony had ended. Everything after that was gone. Nothing plausible ever resurfaced. My chest ached when I thought about it again.

That was an unpleasant sensation I had grown accustomed to over the last couple of months. It happened all of the time and I could not remember ever feeling this way as frequently as I did now. Even when I was in love with others in the past, my heart never hurt every single time they crossed my mind. Perhaps no one other than America had hurt me enough to cause this reaction. Love was a mysterious thing.

You can always tell when someone is in love. It is in the way they carry themselves, straight-backed and tall like they have something to fight for. There is something about their eyes, that delicate sparkle, the fiery desire concealed in their iris that sets you alight. Their steps are lofty and quick as though they cannot return to their lover's side soon enough. The breezy laugh they give with everything they say expresses how joyful it is to be alive.

That is how I knew America was in love with Belarus. He was so happy when she was around that he radiated life and love whenever we were in a room together. Only I could contain enough hatred to taint the tender atmosphere he created, scowling at the ground in the back. His easy smiles and comfortable chuckles were almost too much to bear because they were always for her and would never be for me.

You always know when someone is in love, the way their shoulders slump forward, caving in around their ribcage like the weight of the world rests on them. There is something about their eyes, how they have grown dim, their inner light extinguished. It sets you on edge and shares the horror they have seen. Their pace has since slowed to a somber shuffle because they have simply run out of time. Then they use that meaningless dry chortle after they say something morbid, as though it somehow lessens the blow. When you know they have no reason to go on, it is already too late.

That is how the world knew that I was in love with America. I had never been so in love with someone as I was with him. He made me feel so alive, yet stole away my will to live. His voice either made me swoon or cringe, there was no in between. I was perpetually following his lead like a lovesick puppy or objecting to everything he said.

He made it difficult to breathe, and not in the usual, clichéd "he takes my breath away" sense. Grief weighed me down so that some days I found his name alone could halt my breathing for several seconds until I could regain my bearings. At times, I would not want to emerge from the house at all, much less to attend a meeting where I would find him fawning over his fiancée. Loving him was an endless pit of despair.

However, I would not trade the anguish for the return of the entire British Empire. No matter how badly I hurt over him, once I saw America smile, and my heart beat so loudly in my chest that I was sure someone else could hear it, it was worth it. As long as he was happy, I could not be totally miserable. Nothing meant more to me than his happiness. The sun had set on my empire, but nothing could diminish my love. That was something no one could ever take away from me.

I managed to smile at this. Though I did not deserve the pain I inflicted myself with, placing blame that was not due to me and allowing negative things to grow and manifest into problems I had no business worrying about, I did deserve to be happy. It did not matter what I had done at the wedding, what was done was done. What I could do now was think of all the good that came out of the union.

America was happy and he was much safer now. America was alive, and well, and just as obnoxious as he has been for nearly three centuries. He was still the man I loved, just slightly less available. Belarus was merely keeping my idiot out of trouble since he seems to have a knack for starting wars, and god knows I couldn't handle the chore right now. She would protect him. I was almost grateful that she agreed to marry him.

I watched the rain pour over the streets of London with a more positive outlook on life. The world appeared to be a brighter place again. While I knew that it was never that something was wrong with the world, and rather something wrong with myself, I pretended that it was. It seemed easier for everything else to change than it was for me to do the same. I think I've done enough changing over the centuries to last a lifetime.


	5. Less Than Human

A/N: This is the first of two chapters I will be posting for this week due to how short they are. It did not make any sense to keep them together as one chapter, so I split the original in to two.

dozefallsdownthestairs - Thank you for all of your encouragement and support. I don't know where I would be without it!

CrossingTheBoundary - I think the last chapter was slightly less sad than the one before it. I keep promising that England will not be hurting for too much longer, and then I write a chapter (or two) like this. I hope you enjoy. :)

* * *

From the second I awoke, I was struck with a feeling of dread and unpleasant anticipation. It packed my chest so that I had to lay in bed for a while in order to breathe. As I tried to compose myself, I wondered if anyone else had ever experienced something like this, the inane desire to do absolutely nothing because they were anxious of what was to come. Perhaps it wasn't the want of doing nothing, but the adverse feeling toward what they had to do that kept them in bed. That is precisely what it–the anxiety–was.

I often felt like this, most notably when I had to do something important, as was the case today with the G7 conference. America and I needed to discuss the reception and move on so that all of this craziness was behind us. He continuously brought out the worst in me, so I should have easily been able to rid myself of both him and the negativity he caused, but he was my addiction. Obviously I was the one with a problem, therefore I needed to make the adjustment.

More significantly than that, this meeting would, with any luck, decide the fate of the world. If we could come a conclusion that did not drag half of all nations into a new war, I would consider it a fine day. These sorts of things always caused apprehension amongst us all. World meetings, whilst more chaotic and as often less productive, tapered the burden amongst the many instead of the few. Today was unfortunately not one of those days where I could be alone with my fickle heart while the others bickered and schemed.

I groaned as I sat up in bed only to slump forward and rest my head in my hands. Life was never simple, but it somehow managed to get harder recently. Not only had I no clue as to what I could or would say to America, I had none of the answers everyone was looking for. I did not know how I would survive the day feeling the way I did, much less how I could prevent the nearly inevitable war that was becoming more and more real each day.

The worst part of the circumstance was the inescapable guilt that accompanied every thought I had. I had problems, as everyone does, and they were not dire by any means, but they were important to me. _How could I possibly focus on ailing the woes of others when I could not do the same for my own?_ I thought more often than was probably healthy. I was constantly divided between being effortlessly, naturally selfish and forcing myself to think of others first. It was just so bloody difficult!

Perhaps I should have taken care of myself first and then concerned myself with the world. That was a logical proceeding if this were a human faced with an identical struggle. They could put everything else aside for the time being, get their act together, and return to helping others afterward. I prayed that I would one day be afforded the same luxury. That day never seemed to arrive, however, no matter how frequently or desperately I pleaded.

Being a nation could be taxing in so many different ways that it made my head spin. Sometimes I was as human as my citizens–my ceaseless infatuation with America proved that time and again. Often it slipped my mind that I was not like those I surrounded myself with. I had to be reminded that I was not like the blokes I shared a pint with at the pub down the way, or the clerk at the market I chatted with as I restocked my tea supply, nor did I have the same occupation as any of the people I could spot crossing the street on their daily commute. We possessed emotions that were alike and had comparable preferences, but I was still not a person.

I could not describe being a country to anyone that was not also one. It always depended on the day and how my people were fairing, if it was raining, if the death rate had gone down. My citizens ultimately decided how I felt, whether I liked it or not. When it came down to it, I did not feel as though I were an individual but an extension of my people. Essentially that is what I was and what I was created to do. I could never be sure when euphoria would become suffering and I would be silently sobbing while clutching at my chest because I could no longer feel anything there. I could be completely empty for a long time before I regained even a semblance of feeling.

Years ago I filled that void with an insatiable greed for land and wealth. Several generations of leaders told me that it was what would heal the country, and in turn, me. I was younger in those days, I believed them. All of those poor people I practically enslaved for the betterment of self are the reason I found it so tough to return to my selfish ways now. Even though I knew _exactly _how they felt about being a part of my empire, I had become a different man, I hadn't cared about that or their wellbeing as a nation ought to. I knew that I was unhappy regardless of the riches and the colonies and the adventure. They should have to agonize, too.

I gained a much darker side that took centuries to squelch so that I returned to being the mild mannered nation I was before all of the bloodshed. America knew me as a gentleman, but I refused to show him what I had become as the British Empire. He had no idea as to how cruel I was, how terrible I could be. When he thought the taxes I imposed were harsh, I laughed, mocking how adorably innocent he was, to think that that was the worst I was capable of.

In other parts of the world, I was pillaging and overthrowing kings who had ruled their lands for as long as lore could tell. His people did not have to mine for resources under duress to ship back to the queen, as Spain did to the natives of his colonies. The colonists in New England were free to live on the land I provided for them in exchange for unwavering loyalty to the crown and a few minor taxes. I was generous to America because I loved him, he was my little brother.

But I learnt that colonies only brought pain, I could thank him for that lesson, and I eventually lost hold on every land I spent decades conquering. After that, I became more secluded. Most of the other countries had never undergone a change as drastic as I had, with Spain and Portugal as two of the exceptions, and they could not understand what it was like to experience a fall of such great magnitude. I was alone and angry at everything.

Now I had to worry about America declaring war or Russia doing the same, and I, as well as at least a dozen other countries, would have to abide by our alliances. I couldn't be positive when I would wake up to the news that my people would have to go off to war. They would have to abandon their families to fight for their country, possibly orphaning children or resigning a spouse to widowhood if something were to go awry. This put me in a rut that I could not afford to take lightly. Humans would die much more rapidly than they were currently and it pained me to even think about it.

"Bloody hell, pull yourself together!" I mumbled aloud.

I had no choice other than to do what was right for my citizens. If war was truly imminent, we had to prepare. There was little chance that we would avoid it completely–then again, there rarely was–but we could hope for the best and do what we could to not be caught off our guard. We would survive as we always have, I knew that much.

Though I did so reluctantly, I slid out of bed to prepare for the long day ahead of me. I took time to sit for a cup of tea to calm my nerves and to reflect on what I could do to change the world. It seemed incredibly difficult for one island country to make a difference, at times it appeared as though it could only amount to a fantasy of the naïve, but I had to stay positive. Some of the most brilliant changes the world has ever seen came about through the work of a single human. I could achieve fantastic things if I put my mind to it.

With America temporarily pushed aside, I thought a bit more clearly and with more consideration. I concluded that I would offer up my meager suggestions at the meeting in an attempt to preserve the shreds of peace that remained between the belligerent nations. If I could manage it, I planned on having a word with America to clear up any misconceptions either of us may have had. Though I was still unbelievably anxious, I departed my home with an inexplicable optimism.


	6. The Meeting to End All Wars

A/N: This story is based on current events. Russia was banned from the G8 Conference, which was going to be held in Sochi, in response to the actions taken in Crimea.

* * *

The G7 conference was held in Brussels as opposed to the previously planned location in Sochi, due to the recent crisis that initiated Russia's ban from said meeting. We, the remaining seven powers, had much to discuss at this meeting and even more at stake. If we didn't come to a peaceful solution, none of us could be sure as to whether we could prevent the next World War from breaking out. It was decided that the atrocities occurring in Russia had to end. We simply did not know how we could accomplish this feat.

Japan, France, Germany, Italy, and America were all in attendance. Brushing off the feeling that we were missing someone, Germany began the meeting without delay, shouting out the directory in the imposing tone we were accustomed to. We did not have time for dillydallying. He wearily delivered the news of events from the past several months: the rising concern of earthquakes, a new global terrorist threat, and other issues that went moderately unnoticed by the world. It was not hard to imagine that Germany hated this responsibility, having to recite the sufferings of our people, but it was essential so that we could discuss solutions.

As per usual, the mood of this particular G7 conference was dismal. Each of us was silently mourning the unnecessary loss of human life around the globe, though the focus was on Crimea. It was heart wrenching to hear about the tribulations of these people, and I had no doubts that it was far worse to witness them firsthand. Even America, who had been oddly quiet–possibly due to his marriage that made him more sympathetic toward Belarus' relatives–powered through the meeting. He tried to solve every one of the world's problems, but it was impossible. No one could do it alone.

Our debate on Russia was going nowhere fast. There was no easy solution, and without any of the nations in question present, it was even more difficult to come up with a step that was heading in the right direction. No matter what was proposed, another country would point out the fatal flaws in the plan, and we ended up right back where we started. While I was relieved that I was not the only one without a clue in this situation, it was frustrating, to say the least.

Germany ventured on to another topic, seeing as we were making no headway. "What is being done about the schoolgirls that were abducted?"

America jumped up and slammed his palm on the table, startling the remaining nations sitting around him. "I totally sent in some of my own troops to help, dude! We'll bring those girls home, I'm sure of it!"

It was no surprise that he had intervened. None of us had the heart to tell America that he alone would not be able to retrieve the girls. That would serve only to diminish the already low hopes of the present nations, so every last one of us bit our tongues. He looked so proud of himself, smiling confidently and speaking loudly, that I desperately wanted to believe in him. Germany merely nodded and moved on to the next item.

By the end of the day, we had come no closer to a verdict on anything than we had prior to the conference. All that was accomplished was the depression of the world powers. None of us departed without heavy hearts after Germany dismissed the meeting, not even the typically lively Italy, who clung to his fiancé's side with tears sliding down his cheeks. These meetings were never easy–though today's was particularly demoralizing–and after the excitement of the wedding, which helped us temporarily forget the disturbing things going on in the world, this blow was more difficult to take.

I had tried to speak with America before the meeting began, hoping to settle upon what happened during the reception that left me feeling as though I had forgotten something important. He avoided me like the plague, fearfully retreating to wherever he could to get away the fastest and that is when he confirmed that I had done something terrible. Once the meeting had concluded, I made a second attempt to confront him, but he had slipped away before I could grab his attention. I pinched the bridge of my nose in agitation.

My only option now was to return home, so I decided it would be best if I did just that. America obviously did not want to discuss the way I had handled his wedding night. I had to respect that, even if I disagreed with his choice. It was when I rounded the corner upon exiting the building that I discovered where he had run off to. I found myself approaching two practically identical countries, both tall, blonde, and handsome.

"I'm supposed to be the hero," I heard America mutter to the other.

A timid voice came in reply. "You can't be everyone's hero all of the time. It will get better, though, I'm sure of it."

Canada's soothing words did nothing to comfort America. The latter appeared in worse shape than the rest of us, his palm placed against his scrunched up forehead and slumped posture showing that he had finally been broken down. During the conference his cheerful façade never faltered, but I could see it now; the worn man he truly was. America harbored more guilt than any of the other nations because he thought he was liable for all of the damage that was done. I never could fathom why he felt like he was responsible for the rest of the world. He constantly admitted blame for every mistake that was not his and denied it for those that were.

To live in his mind must have been maddening. I could deal with my conflicts of morals and selfishness–that was not nearly as difficult as what America went through. There was enough pressure on me as a country alone to turn coal in to diamonds, but to think that what the _entire world_ did was my problem, too? I hoped for America's sake that he did not take his role of the hero as seriously as he presented unless he planned on failing miserably. No one could do it on their own.

Watching him struggle with matters that were out of his hands always upset me. He did not have to tell me what he thought so that I would understand what was on his mind or why he felt a certain way, I knew him better than that. I never had to ask him why he did some of the ridiculous things he got caught up in, though I usually would for clarification. We were brothers, after all, and for many years I was his only friend. He and I shared a bond that no one else could claim. Being that much closer to him made me more vulnerable.

"It isn't fair! Why is this so hard to fix? What am I doing wrong?"

"You're doing everything you can."

America sighed angrily. "It isn't enough!"

He then turned toward around to see who had interrupted their exchange. Clearly he was not expecting me and his eyes grew wide. Instead of immediately scaring America away, I recognized the less noticed country on his right with a forced smile. I was not in the mood for pleasantries at the moment. America and I met each other's gazes for a brief second before he looked away guiltily.

"Oh, Canada, when did you get here?"

"I've been here all along," he replied stiffly. He watched us carefully, eyeing his brother in particular. Luckily, he was much better at reading the atmosphere than the other North American country, so he quickly excused himself. "I was actually aboot to head home."

"Huh?" America's head snapped up suddenly as though he had forgotten we weren't alone.

"Never mind," Canada breathed. "Goodbye, America, England."

America's brow furrowed in contemplation, he glanced around for a moment before shaking his head to rid of whatever thought was troubling him. He still denied me the civility of eye contact, but he did not run this time–I took what I could get. I grappled to find the right start for what I had to say, staring at the ground since looking at him would have made this more awkward than it already had to be. The words did not come as easily as I wished they would. For once, both of us were utterly quiet. It was unsettling.

"If you're looking for an apology, I'm sorry." I shot him a puzzled look. "I tried to say it before, but I don't think you were listening, so I'm really sorry."

There was a hand on the back of his neck and his shoulders angled slightly forward, his eyes cast on the floor. I had no clue as to what he was sorry for, I thought his odd behavior was in response to something I'd done.

"I was coming to apologise to you."

"Wait, what?" He dropped his hand and stared at me incredulously. "I thought you were mad about the thing I did! Well, not _the_ thing–you seemed fine with it–the thing I did after that."

"What on earth are you going on about? What _thing_?" Sometimes it was difficult to communicate with him. I would never have this problem with an Englishman. _Leave it to an American_, I thought. _The_ _American_. "Oh, shove it, you. I am sorry for acting out at your wedding. I can't remember much of it, but with the way you have been avoiding me, I must have done something awful."

I was anticipating another pause so that he could think about what he would say next. America was never one for thinking, though, and he laughed nervously to cover up whatever mistake he was going to make. Curious as to what he did to think he earned my wrath, I was going to implore further. He noticed that I was about to ask about the eloquently stated "thing" and interrupted me before I could.

"Dude! I totally thought you were going to kill me!" He chortled a bit louder. "But we had a great time, we danced, and we got drunk. You know how to party!"

"Now why would I–?"

America patted my shoulder too roughly. "Seriously, we had a blast! I, uh, gotta go, though. Belarus will be pissed if I keep her waiting–bye!" He ran off before I could bid him farewell.

My questions were never going to receive answers at the rate things were going. France was too much of a prat to help me and America was as inattentive as always. He appeared more than a touch relieved to discover that I did not know what he had done. Something told me that it was not worth all of the fuss, but it was the premise of the thing that made me so adamant to find out what it was. I swore, if it was as silly as–

A voice that was even stranger than my conversation with America disturbed my thoughts. "You're the one that wants to fuck my husband," Belarus deadpanned in her thick accent.

When she was not demanding that her brother marry her, Belarus was soft spoken and polite, and her voice did not register in my mind right away, even though I knew it was her. She sounded detached from the statement as though we were discussing the weather and not the lewd things I wished to do to America. I was stunned into silence and turned on my heel to see her staring at me with a blank expression. She appeared bored, she usually did.

Though she was terrifying, I had to admit that Belarus was beautiful with her long platinum hair tidily done up in a white bow and the pristine purple dress she religiously wore every day. She was nearly a head shorter than I was, which gave the impression that she was doll-like, but that did not make her any less intimidating. America had mentioned once that he loved her eyes and I could finally see why. They were a gorgeous shade of violet that made her eccentrically attractive. Were she to smile, Belarus would be one of the most breathtaking women I had ever seen.

"I don't know. You look like you'd rather fuck me."

I was understandably embarrassed, trying to stutter out a confession. "I must apologise, Belarus, I was not meaning to stare."

She was staring intently at something behind me and it took every ounce of willpower not to turn around out of fear of what she would do if I did. I was well aware of the hobby she made out of carrying a large knife with her at times. After an awkward amount of time passed, she glanced at me with disinterest.

"I don't know what you did to America, but make it stop."

"What are you talking about?"

"You make him nervous and even more pathetic. It annoys me. He's weak." I did not know how to respond. "Either crush his spirit or I will do it for you."

Before I could come up with something to say to that, the frightful young girl walked away without announcement. She quickly latched on to America, who had returned directly after leaving to find her. He jumped in surprise when she took hold of him and smiled apologetically at me as she pulled him away. I was left to consider the peculiar things she had said, wondering what in the hell she wanted me to do about it. Belarus only seemed to get more bizarre the more I got to know her.


	7. Together

A/N: Well, my story is officially an AU. Belarus signed into an alliance with Russia and Kazakhstan last Tuesday. That being said, I apologise for all of the inaccuracy from before and that is to come. I am sticking with the story I originally planned.

Anyway, I am so excited for Belarus to come into play in the next few chapters that I can hardly wait. She has been so fun to work with and now I finally understand the dynamics of AmeBel.

* * *

I did not see America for several weeks after the conference. The separation was healthy, and I felt good about it for a time, but I missed him terribly. We had not spent this much time apart in years and knowing that it was purposeful on my part made me feel even worse. I tried not to blame Belarus, I truly did. She was not the only reason that I had not stopped by to visit as I tended to do when I began to miss him, though she was certainly the most threatening. America was still hiding something and that is what kept us apart.

A meeting of the United Nations was going to bring the entire world together for the first time since the wedding and I was dreading every second it came closer. Not only would the stress be great between Russia and Ukraine, it would be comparable between America and myself. He and Belarus would arrive together and be delegating as a formal coalition. I would have to put aside my feelings and suffer through it for the wellbeing of the world, moping to myself, which was hardly unordinary. It was not something that was going to change anytime soon, so I had to get used to it.

I left England early as to be in my seat before America could arrive, not wanting to have an awkward run in with either him or his wife. Perhaps avoiding them entirely was childish, but I had no other option. What rational way could there be to handle heartbreak? People do stupid things when they are in love, I was no exception. If dodging them is what it took, so be it. Even after America had taken his seat with Belarus at his side, I refused to look in their direction altogether.

Part of the reasoning behind my evasion was the remark Belarus made about crushing America's spirit. She had said that I made him nervous, and I hadn't a clue what she was talking about. Apart from his exceedingly spacey behavior that began directly after the wedding, I had not been around him long enough to notice any other change. If he would not tell me what happened, I could not do anything about it, so I figured that keeping my distance was the best option. She wanted me to stay away from him and I would try–albeit halfheartedly.

The meeting commenced on time and Germany announced the timetable for the day without interruption. France poked fun at my eyebrows and cooking skills to amuse himself while we waited for the discussions to begin. I did not allow him to lure me in to yet another senseless argument, in no mood to humour him. The other handful of stereotypically rowdy countries remained on their best behavior for the most part, allowing the conversation to transition smoothly to more tense topics

As expected, all hell broke loose once Crimea was mentioned. A statement was made regarding Russia's annexation of the land in Ukraine that had terribly upset the kindhearted nation that was once his big sister. She defended her position, fiercely staking her claim until she began crying and collapsed into a sobbing mess. Russia did not enjoy causing her torment–he could never do something like that to his own family out of spite–and I could see how much it upset him through the creepy mask he always wore.

I empathized with Ukraine. We both knew what it was like to fight for land that is important to you because its residents do not want to be a part of your country. With a powerful boss backing them, it would not be easy for her to win this war, yet giving up without a fight would be just as hard. I believed that she could achieve anything if she set her mind to it.

While it would also benefit me in the long run if Ukraine was to be victorious, I actually cared for her, unlike America and most other nations. He sought only to prevent another outbreak of communism in Eurasia, claiming it was best for her. I hated his egocentric tendencies, especially when he veiled them with flattery and declarations of freedom for the world. He could be absurdly manipulative at times and that sickened me.

Many assumed that he was an idiot through and through–I knew him better than that. Although he was not the best at sensing the mood in any given situation, America was very intelligent in other ways. It did not take him long to have everyone else convinced that he was a pretty little fool. He was not as ignorant as they believed. America played the part brilliantly, I could at least admire that. Sometimes I wondered if he could have been the cleverest of us all. What scared me the most is that even I fell for his charade every so often.

"Most of the people are Russian! They want to be returning home," Russia argued, disregarding his sister's tears. His voice snapped me out of my thoughts. I glimpsed Ukraine shake her head angrily.

"They are h-home! You just want to take them away f-from me!"

Though her siblings were causing a ruckus that the rest of the world was focused on not too far from her, Belarus appeared bored out of her mind. She had a set of three blocks that she stacked in different formations, only to dismantle them as quickly, repeating this cycle over and over for several minutes. After she had grown bored of the odd activity, she turned her attention toward the quarrelling nations. She listened to the debate for all of ten seconds before deciding that the conversation did not concern her. With a roll of her eyes, she resumed stacking the blocks and knocking them over again.

My attention was on Belarus for longer than I cared to admit. She had such strange hobbies–and this was not the most unusual of the set–that it was difficult to overlook, specifically how she carried on as though nothing was wrong. I wondered what it was like to live in a peculiar world where blocks took precedence over matters of war. What could possibly be going on in that head of hers? America had married a bloody child, for god's sake!

Apparently my staring hadn't gone unnoticed. America had started studying me upon realizing that I was watching his wife, his eyebrows drawn together in puzzlement behind his glasses. When I glanced his way for a moment, his eyes grew wide like he'd been caught doing something mischievous, and then looked away. I had thought that we were over this ridiculous game, but I suppose not.

I noted a dramatic shift in Belarus' behavior sometime after eleven that perplexed me more than anything else she had done. Instead of playing the game she had made out of the building blocks, she was fidgeting in her seat, fiddling with the hem of her dress and moving around like she physically could not sit still. America leaned over to whisper something in her ear which must have upset her from the glare she gave him in return, and her minor twitching continued. She looked unnerved by something that none of us could see. For a long while afterward, she stared at nothing as though she were in a trance.

Her stoic behavior lasted for a few hours and I was able to focus on the meeting until then. Around one in the afternoon Belarus exhaled and said something out loud that made America take notice of what she was talking about. He replied and began to look around fearfully. She apparently did not offer any insight as to what she had seen. I could tell that she was no longer fretful. Her husband, however, was exceedingly restless. Though curious, I did not ponder the exchange for too long.

"All right! That is enough!" Germany barked at the warring countries who had broken out into another squabble, though we were no longer discussing Crimea. "Your bickering is getting us nowhere!"

Ukraine took her seat and dried her eyes, clearly frightened by the intimidating nation. She stared at the table while Russia simply smiled. He took this time to formally announce his new alliance with Kazakhstan, which I was not surprised by in the least and it should have had the same effect for the other nations, yet many of them appeared distressed. His elder sister did not bother to respond, nor did the younger. America took the initiative and accused Russia of seeking to revive the Soviet Union, starting to cause a scene. Germany had to have him removed.

France made a comment regarding the idiot I was in love with and I readily agreed. America should have kept his mouth shut. Russia was trying to get a rise out of him and it had worked. I shook my head while America shouted about communism and freedom as he was escorted out. The door slammed shut with resounding finality. Belarus made a displeased sound and rolled her eyes. For once, I think we agreed on something: America was ridiculously vocal about his opinions.

With relatively nothing else to discuss, the world meeting concluded for the day. On my way out of the meeting room, I found America standing in the hall. I was set on ignoring him to continue the silence between us, figuring he was waiting for his wife to emerge, he had other ideas. He gave me a fabricated smile, his eyes missing the playful spark I hardly ever saw him go without.

"Hey, dude, you haven't been over in a while."

"I have been preoccupied," I replied coldly. _Besides, you have found yourself married_.

America discounted my perceptibly cynical tone, looking troubled. "Can we talk about something?"

"Oh, so now you wish to speak to me."

"I know you're mad, but, please, just gimme a minute."

I did not have it in me to flinch at how he butchered my language. Instead I simply nodded, following him through the corridor to the room we used to have meetings with the Allies in not so long ago. He walked stiffly ahead of me and I wondered what he could possibly have to say that had him set on edge. America shut the door behind us, but had yet to say a word. He sat in the seat he typically took at the head of the table and put his head in his hands. I chose to remain standing.

"Are you quite alright, America?"

He peered up at me with a pained expression that said he was not okay and dropped his hands into his lap. "Have you ever done something that you thought was a mistake?"

"Of course–"

"No, hear me out, okay?" He adjusted his glasses, though they hadn't needed it. "Say you made a mistake, but it wasn't a mistake. Like, you thought that it was wrong and, yeah, it probably was, but you don't regret it at all. Does that make any sense?"

"Not particularly, though I think I know what you're getting at. What have you done?" America squeezed his eyes shut like he was in immense pain. I walked over and knelt on the ground next to him. "You can tell me anything."

He looked at me. "I said something to you that wasn't fair and instead of living with the consequences, I took it back. But it wasn't a mistake, England."

I waited for an elaboration and let my hand fall away. "What did you say?" America looked away. He was ashamed of what he had done, whatever it was. "Does it have to do with what you apologised for?"

"Yeah, it does, but I shouldn't have thought saying sorry was enough. I fucked up big time."

"Can we stop skirting around the matter, then? What could you have possibly said–?"

"I love you."

I completely froze. He was watching me to gauge my reaction, but I couldn't move. America said the three words I secretly whispered to him as he walked away, the phrase that had driven me crazier every time I uttered it, the sentence that created the most powerful union on earth–and it was for me. I was shocked beyond belief. The words died in my mouth. My thoughts disappeared in a blink of an eye.

America's voice was thick with emotion. If I was able to process it better, I would have sworn he was about to cry. "I told you that I loved you, but I didn't know if it was true. I was drunk and so were you. We were making out and–"

If I wasn't shocked to petrification, I would have asked him what the hell he meant. We kissed and I couldn't remember it?

"I said it anyway. And then I panicked because I had just gotten married! I agreed to spend my life with Belarus, but there we were, kissing each other and I was confessing my love to you. You seemed so happy, I shouldn't have said it in the first place. It was too late, so I took it back instead."

"You... took it back?"

"I pulled away and apologized, I blamed it on how drunk I was–I wasn't even that drunk! I just couldn't deal with the guilt. Belarus was inside, it was our wedding night!"

"You. Took. It. Back." There were no words to describe my heartbreak. I took to my feet, planning on walking out and never speaking to him again. He looked mortified.

"Yes, I did! I'm so sorry, England. I thought it was a mistake." America smiled sadly, standing up to remove the distance between us. "But it wasn't a mistake because I'm so in love with you."

He grabbed my face and kissed me before I could leave. It was not gentle or sweet like I had wanted it to be. America was rough and possessive as though he was fighting for something in kissing me. Perhaps he was fighting for me. He gripped my waist a little too tightly and the other hand latched on to my chin. I wasn't sure if I wanted to so much as look at him after hearing what he had done. America was right to have thought that I would be upset after what he put me through. I had loved him for so long…

I had loved him for so long that none of that mattered anymore. He had his faults, and being a complete arse when it came to others' feelings was a major one. America was not absolved and my forgiveness would not be given easily. I would not pardon his actions because his lips were making my head swim and the way he touched me made my skin tingle with pleasure. He would be held accountable–after he had his way with me, of course.

"Are you, truly?" I knew that words could betray, but I needed to hear America say it again.

"I love you," he said.

"I doubt that," I retorted.

America spun us around and shoved me against the table so that it pressed into the small of my back. It did not hurt all that much, so I let the twinge pass. I couldn't trouble myself to think about the wood digging into my spine when his lips were crushed against mine. We were kissing again, this time with our tongues lapping at each other sloppily like neither of us had a clue what to do with them. There were more pressing matters at hand than properly snogging. Like how fast I could get his trousers around his ankles.

He was grinding against me and every second was a mixture of pain and pleasure that I couldn't distinguish the dividing line to. Thrilled by the table forced in to my lower back and how it sent a painful prickle throughout my body, I didn't have time to decide if I was masochist as America was shifting me up onto the table, both hands cradling my arse in a way I never thought they would.

We were making breathy little sounds–since normal people don't usually produce obscene moans and overexcited gasps after kissing for twenty seconds–and I loved hearing America's nearly inaudible pants, how his breathing hitched when he particularly liked something I did. I pushed him away for a moment so I could gather my wits, but he was not about to stop there. His mouth traveled to my jawline where he began sucking at the untouched skin with the intention of leaving a mark. He then rocked his hips forward slightly so that I could feel how hard he was.

I was insecure about what to do next, it was happening so fast. He was married and I was his best friend. We should not have been kissing each other period, even less so with his wife in the vicinity. I wasn't sure if I should be the one to put a stop to this before it became too serious. His touch was addicting and I knew that I didn't want it to end, but I owed it to Belarus. She had done nothing to wrong me, I could not let this go on.

America ran a hand up my thigh, rubbing the general area of my groin, and all thoughts of Belarus were gone. His mouth found mine. I wound my fingers through his hair and wrapped my legs around him, definitely not encouraging him to stop.

Entirely unsure of how far we were planning to go, I assumed that neither of us would be needing our trousers as it was growing increasingly uncomfortable to be restrained the harder I got. I grasped at America's belt and fumbled to get it undone, trying to unlatch it unsuccessfully numerous times. It was utterly embarrassing, but he didn't seem to mind. He grinned against my lips.

"Let me get that."

He undid his belt much more quickly and proceeded to rid me of mine, too. When he finished and went to look up again, his forehead bumped my nose clumsily. I clutched it with watering eyes, limbs falling away from him, and glared at him reproachfully. America chuckled softly and kissed me. Instead of feeling uncomfortable, we both laughed because sex almost never went without little blunders like that. We locked eyes, our faces flushed and sweating, and I decided that America had never looked more handsome to me before.

He pecked me more gently this time. "I love you."

"I love you so much more."

I undid the button of his trousers, unzipped them, and tugged them down. His mouth was melding with mine so I couldn't get a look at what he had underneath all of those clothes. I was becoming increasingly interested. My thumbs hooked into each side of his briefs and slid them over his hips. America made a small sound in the back of his throat that urged me to reach for his cock which was almost fully erect. I began to work at his length with a slow, gentle rhythm, feeling how much larger he was than I had thought.

America broke away and pressed our foreheads together, panting a bit faster now and moaning softly. He shifted off my hip to take care of my clothes and I had to use a hand to keep sitting upright. I smiled to myself as he whispered my name. It sent a shiver down my spine that felt right in every way. He was thrusting to meet my hand, but had to restrain himself from going so fast that the friction made it more uncomfortable than it was worth. Sadly, no one happens to carry lube in their pocket, and that complicated things.

His fingers playfully traced over the fabric that still covered my erection. I waited for him to do more, but he continued to torture me with the feathery grazes and watched as I squirmed under his touch. The pace I had going for him slowed. He still went on to tease me.

"Get on with it, i-idiot!"

I think he smirked, though I could not be sure. When he did not listen, I stopped pleasuring him altogether. America sighed heavily in disappointment, upset that his little game was over so long as he wanted me to touch him, and pulled my cock from its confines. He had difficulty setting a speed at first, but I was patient with him. No matter what he did or how badly he did it, I reveled in every shaky stroke, they filled me with pleasure simply because it was America.

"America!" It was so faint at first that neither of us heard it over me whining his name. "America!" This time, louder. I still did not recognize that other people existed outside the two of us.

"America," I moaned in response.

"AMERICA!" she shouted loud enough for both of us to hear clearly.

We came to an abrupt stop, realising what, and who, it was. America practically fell away from me as he scrambled to get his trousers back up. I, too, began to right my clothes, hopping off the table. He was struggling to tighten his belt the same way I had trouble with removing it. His hands were shaking and he kept glancing at the door, waiting for his wife to burst through at any moment. Luckily for him, her voice alone had made him go soft, I wished that I could say the same. America was going to leave me alone to face his wife, hot and bothered, with an uncomfortable erection. It took me less time to tidy up than it did for him, so I rushed over to fix his hair which I had mussed up. Once he looked presentable enough, America pulled me in and swiftly pecked my lips once.

"I'm so sorry."

She was going to catch us. There was no way out of it. Mere weeks after she told me to stay away from him, I went and stuck my hand down her husband's pants. Belarus was going to skin me alive and we both knew it. That is before Russia could manage to get his hands on me. Fear shot through me as I thought of all of the horrifying things he would do once he discovered that America had cheated on his sister with me. Our only chance relied on Belarus not asking too many questions. I kissed America, I didn't know when I would get to ever again. He did not smile.

"Go. Walk past her without a word–a single word, you hear me? If she asks later, I started a fight with you for no reason and we are not speaking."

America nodded. Before Belarus could get too much closer, I pushed him out the door. His footsteps got fainter as he walked away and I heard her ask him where he had been, he gave no reply. She did not follow after him, just as I had expected, deciding to investigate the room her husband had emerged from instead.

With an evident and awkward bulge in my pants, I took a seat in a chair that faced the entrance to hide it. My heart was pounding in my chest faster than when America's touch had made my pulse race. It was caused by panic, of course, but also a sense of superfluous guilt that overwhelmed me. I could vomit, I was so upset with my actions. _America was married_. We knew that it was immoral. More importantly, _I_ knew it. Did either of us question it? No! Oh god, I had done something appalling.

Several seconds later, Belarus opened the door to peer inside. She might have been surprised to see me–I couldn't tell. Her face was set to her default expression of tedium and nothing I did ever seemed to change that. I imagined that would be the first thing to change if she found out. Even if she could be half as frightening as her brother, I was right to be fearing for my life. I prayed that she was secretly more like her sister and would burst into tears before she could murder me with her bare hands.

"What were you doing?"

I rubbed my eyes like I'd been crying so that she would dismiss the damming blush. "I did what you told me to. I crushed his spirit."

"How?" She did not seem fazed in the least.

"I said some things I am not proud of, but it achieved the right effect," I answered vaguely.

Belarus pursed her lips as she considered this. Thankfully, she was a nation that held little regard for others and often did not care enough about anyone else to prod for information. She glanced at me one last time, appearing to have made a mental note of some kind, before leaving without announcement.

Adrenaline flowed through my veins at an alarming rate so that I felt disturbingly alive. I smiled stupidly to myself, my pulsating cock and guilty conscience the only things that were left to prove that America and I had done something wicked. We had actually gotten away with it. Instead of vowing to never step out of line again as I should have, I began to think about when I would next see America so we could pick up where we left off.

He was not forgiven and I did feel remorseful, but I had loved him longer than Belarus was a recognized nation. I was not about to give him up because he had married her. We were going to be more careful and we were going to be together. There was but one thought on my mind: America might have been in love with me.


	8. Wanting More

A/N: I figured that I should keep the angst at a minimum for this chapter, so here is more smut and a bit of Belarus.

dozefallsdownthestairs - Thank you for everything. I can't wait to get your feedback on this chapter. Please don't hesitate to point out anything I could have done better or could improve upon in the future.

CrossingTheBoundary - All of your Belarus-related questions should be answered more fully in the next chapter. Thank you for being so patient with me.

* * *

I was nervous as I stood at the door of America's home, running a hand through my hair and contemplating my options–obviously stalling. This was certainly not the first time I had done this. Every time I came for a visit, I would perform the same ritual until my nerves settled, the messing of my hair and abysmal envisioning part of the standard routine. It hardly ever worked, though I pretended that it made a difference before I saw him. Some days were better than others.

This time was different, however. We had not seen each other for a few days and only talked the one time it took for America to invite me over. He acted like it was any other visit, which made me feel even more anxious. It would certainly not be the same. I knew that by showing up today that I was inviting all sorts of possibilities into fruition that would tarnish my reputation as a gentleman. The thing is, I did not care all that much.

What truly bothered me was what I would be doing to Belarus when I walked through that door. I couldn't know if the stoic girl actually loved America, but she did have emotions, she was still somewhat human. Even if she had no romantic feelings for her husband, anyone would be at least a bit upset that their spouse had cheated on them. She would not know about it, of course–that is what I told myself.

A deep breath later, I knocked on the door and waited. America took his time to answer, leaving me to my thoughts a while longer. I was able to think about what I was getting myself into, what was at risk, and I was aware of everything I stood to lose. All that I seemed able to gain from this was America. Even that was not guaranteed. I could never have him completely while he was married, yet it was still enough to put it all on the line.

The pros and cons did not appear to balance out, but he was all I had ever wanted. I decided that he was worth it in the end without giving the idea any in depth analysis. If I could have him, even for a little while, even only a part of him, the price I must pay did not matter. For once, I wanted something to work out in my favor. Maybe America and I could be together in this way until he and Belarus split up, and then I could have finally have him.

The door handle turned and I stopped breathing. It should have occurred to me before that there was always the possibility of Belarus showing up now that she lived with America. This thought came to me all too late as the door opened. She stood there with an eyebrow raised–the only intimation that she was surprised–the slit of the entrance she allowed me to see blocked by her body. Upon realising it was me, she opened the door the rest of the way and looked me up and down.

"H-hello, Belarus. How are you?"

She did not return my pleasantry. "What are you doing?"

"America and I have a meeting," I said nonchalantly, reminding myself that it was not a complete lie.

Her intimidation was impressive; a slight quirk of her lips made me want to shrink back in fear. She looked like she was entertained by my response, as amused as I imagined she could be. I waited for her to respond with either words or the appearance of her favourite blade, praying that the former was more likely and that she believed me. Belarus finally made eye contact, her faint smirk still evident.

"America and I also had a meeting," she replied with suggestion of delight. She said nothing else, pushing past me and walking down the drive with a faint skip in her step. It terrified me to see the normally gloomy girl act so happily.

America came rushing down the hallway. "Hey, England! Dude, I wasn't expecting you so early!" He glanced anxiously over my head at his wife who paid us no mind and continued to stride away.

"Why is she in such a chipper mood today?"

"I dunno, bro," he chuckled uneasily. "We don't really live together. She usually isn't even here–she hates staying at my place. Sometimes she'd come over to see my famous haunted houses, but she got bored after the first week and stopped."

I thought it odd that Belarus would decide to show up today if what America said was true. If she had not been by since the first week they were married, why was today any different? None of it made any sense. America smiled and asked me to come inside, no offer of explanation given. Brushing aside my discomfort, I accepted his invitation.

"Will she be back?"

"No, I think she got what she was looking for."

"Perfect," I said, planting a hand on each side of his face, angling him so I could press a kiss to his lips. If we were going to risk everything by being together, for however long it would last, I at least wanted to get something out of it.

He grinned against my mouth and snaked his arms around my waist, pulling me into him. "Bedroom?"

"Haven't the time, I'm afraid."

After America chuckled at my impatience, he tossed me over his shoulder without warning. While I kicked and screamed at him, which he found hilarious, he carried me toward the bedroom. He took me into a room I had never been in before and set me on my feet. I crossed my arms over my chest, mumbling complaints about the undignified treatment that he disregarded. Instead of submitting to my whining, he began to remove his shirt, tugging it over his head sexily. I had no objection to that. He then helped me out of my clothes so that I was left in only my boxers, the rest lying in a heap on the floor.

America laid me on the bed and began pressing kisses along my jaw, running his lips across the skin he thought would be most sensitive. He would smile as I arched to meet the touch of his hands, listen to the breathy sighs I made with delight. I carded my fingers in his hair, pulling whenever he nibbled at my earlobe or did something equally as pleasurable, and focused on how his breath sped up on occasion in want of me. He dragged his hands down my torso, nails digging into the skin on my sides. I found that I enjoyed it.

We were not content with the pace, even though it was much faster than either of us should have been comfortable with, and I was as fervent to undress America as he was. He removed my boxers, taking to running his tongue over the head of my growing erection sloppily. I moaned softly in encouragement. America was daring to take me into his mouth before long and began to suck, messily catching his teeth on my sensitive cock after a few bobs of his head. I made a hissing noise and pushed America away.

"Good god! Either you are into some strange things, America, or you've never been with another man." I meant it as a caustic remark, but he smiled sheepishly.

"Well, yeah, dude. My people were never accepting of this sorta thing, so I kinda stuck to women."

America was a virgin of sorts? Well, that explained so much that I felt entirely stupid. It had taken him ages to respond to my obvious feelings for him and he had not proven to be an exceptional lover. Huffing in annoyance of having to demonstrate how to do everything properly to America, this satisfied me in another way. I would be his first and that was consolation for the terrible hand and blow jobs. We would figure it out eventually and until we did, I would top. At least there was that, I thought.

"Come here, I'll teach you," I said.

He was blushing shyly, his confidence nearly vanished. I turned America on to his back and crawling so that I nearly straddled him, kissed him reassuringly. We were snogging again to get back the rhythm we had worked out. He introduced his tongue to my mouth, sliding it along my bottom lip, massaging it against mine. I was pleased that at least that had improved since the last time we tried this. Still tentative, I kept it slow for his sake, spending more time kissing him than I would have with someone more experienced.

America's fingers traced my spine and I almost decided to leave it at kissing today, fairly content with the way things were going, but he gave me a suggestive look when I pulled back for a moment that destroyed any chance of that. That was enough to communicate that we were not leaving any of our clothes on this time. I smirked at him–taking off his glasses and setting them on the nightstand–and started to work on pulling down his trousers, moving my mouth against his with more urgency now. He couldn't help smiling at the change one expression had made.

I wrapped a hand around his cock and began pumping slowly, even more slowly when he tried to take control by lifting his hips or fisting my hair to deepen the kiss. He groaned unappreciatively, though he seemed to understand, becoming newly submissive as I sped up. His impressive chest was rising and falling rapidly, I was amused by his panting. My own erection was becoming progressively more painful, screaming for attention, and I had to force myself to put it aside for just a while longer.

When I thought he had enough of my teasing, I took my mouth away from his to put it to better use, placing my lips around the tip of America's erection. I circled my tongue around his head until he produced an obscene moan, tightly clutching on to the sheets. He was large in both length and girth, so I had my work cut out for me. Before I could take a third of him into my mouth, my jaw was aching, but I had had worse. I was careful to mind my teeth as I bobbed my head leisurely, not wanting America to experience the same pain he had caused me.

He did not like how deliberately I performed these tasks. I should have mentioned that the purpose was not to make him come before we even started. America never voiced a complaint, however, only his pleasure, namely when I did something that surprised him. Like when I hummed upon sensing that he was growing bored with my rhythm. He moaned and quivered in a way that made my anticipation outweigh my restraint. I had to have him now.

I released America and moved my jaw to ease the pain. "Do you have–?"

Reaching for the nightstand, he produced a small bottle of non-flavored, unscented lube, nothing special. He bit his lip in nervousness, but I thought it was incredibly sexy. I kissed his forehead sweetly. It had been centuries since I had seen someone look at me so innocently. While sultry was exactly that, purity could be even more erotic.

"No worries, love. It won't hurt much," I soothed.

America was still unsure if what I said was true. I sat on my knees, coated two of my fingers with the lubricant, and pushed his legs further apart. As I pressed the first in, America whined quietly. Ignoring the obviously fake sound with a roll of my eyes, I continued. I had plenty experience on bottom and I knew for a fact that one finger was nothing compared to what America would soon want to put inside of me. Once I was positive he wouldn't grumble about it, I added the second, then the third, watching his face contort with the strange sensation. I returned to pumping his erection to ease his worry.

I began to stretch him as patiently as I could manage, not wanting to cause him any discomfort that might hinder our future trysts, but it was difficult to resist fucking him right then. America was flushed, not from embarrassment or timidity–desire tinted his cheeks a delicate pink. Everything I did had him making breathy sounds he tried to choke back. They caused a stirring in my gut, something exciting I rarely felt. He was undeniably irresistible and he was mine.

Something came to mind as I felt America's pulse around my fingers on one hand and between them on the other. This was the sort of thing I had only dreamt of doing to him. Though I had to shamefully admit to my fantasies of taking and being taken by him in every possible way, it was more exhilarating than disgraceful, and supremely satisfying. We had not so much as kissed–that I could remember–before a few days ago and here I was, about to make love to the only man I wanted post World War I. My heart raced all the faster in realising this.

He allowed me to finish prepping him without any incident and I stroked my cock a few times, applying more lubricant, before pressing it against his arse.

"Don't tense up, America. That defeats the purpose."

"Yeah, sure," he agreed, relaxing a tad.

With great restraint, I pushed in to America, biting my lip so I could think about something other than how overwhelmingly pleasurable it was to be inside of him. He squirmed a bit under me and I focused on pacifying him with another kiss, touching his face tenderly to express how gentle I was trying to be. America nodded to signify when I could move. Thankfully, it did not take long for him to grant me this permission.

I adored the whimper that followed me thrusting into him and every other sound I elicited that drove me mad with lust. America's hands dug into my back and he had his eyes screwed shut, evidently in pain, but he moaned quietly, pleading for more when I slowed, so I knew he was experiencing a fair amount of pleasure, too. At least one of us was practised enough to show us both a good time, I thought.

"_England_," he gasped when I hit his prostate. As I said, I was glad I knew what I was doing.

Neither of us lasted much longer. America was overcome with sensations he'd never known and I had not been with another man from the time I realised I possessed feelings for him. He came first, spurting over both of our stomachs, my name leaving his mouth as a whisper. I came shortly after, panting and shuddering with satisfaction. I took a moment to admire America as I pulled out, appreciative of how his lightly tanned sweat-slicked skin shone in the daylight, the flush that had spread down his neck in his orgasm, eyes hazy in the aftermath and becoming clearer the longer I stared. His breathing was gradually returning to normal, as was my own, and I enjoyed how I rose and fell in time with it when I laid my head on his chest.

He wound his arms around me without a word passing between us. We did not bother to clean up, too tired to even move, so we were sticky in all sorts of ways. I did not mind, America seemed to feel the same way. Though I was completely exhausted, there was no way I could have fallen asleep. My mind was racing at a mile a minute.

We had sex–America and I had sex. This couldn't possibly be real. I thought it over and over until the words themselves no longer made sense, but I could not accept it as the truth. Even lying in his arms, listening to him sweetly murmur how much he loved me into my hair, it would have been impossible to accept. He had been unavailable for so long in so many ways: emotionally, physically, and mentally. I could not believe that in mere days, after _years_ of pining after him, I had gotten America into bed with me.

America sleepily traced irregular patterns across my back, he must not have been able to doze off either. There was something on his mind, I was unsure if I wanted to know what it was. I was torn between being caring, as a lover ought to be, and selfish, as I was often prone to. Curiosity ultimately won out. I questioned what was bothering him, hoping I would not regret the decision.

"It's Belarus."

I did not like the sound of where this was going already, automatically regretting my choice. "What of her?"

"She's crazier than I thought," he readily admitted.

It made me insanely jealous when he spoke of her at all, and the fact that he brought her up right after we made love had me seeing red. She must have been on his mind ever since she walked away, otherwise I did not think he would mention her at all. Something she had done might have upset him, so I had to listen. I did just take his hypothetical virginity, after all.

"Why do you say that?"

"She has this obsession with boxes and collects them whenever she can–says she's packing for something, but won't tell me what she's packing for."

From what I gathered about Belarus, this was hardly unordinary. If anything, he should be grateful; at least this hobby did not involve knives. I was becoming increasingly amused by how the discussion had turned, taking delight in all the odd things I had not known about her, wondering how much I had yet to learn. Had she not married America, I might have actually wanted to get to know my fellow country. There was no possibility of that now. I had sex with America. There was no way I could hold a decent conversation with a woman whose husband I made love to after she had done me no wrong.

"With any luck, she's packing for when she leaves you," I grumbled. America stopped rubbing circles on my back. "Sorry."

"You know why that can't happen, England."

"I do. What else?"

He seemed to be even more stressed over his next complaint. "She likes… ghosts."

I tried my best not to chuckle. America's aversion of the supernatural had always been laughable, but this truly upset him, so I made an attempt to behave accordingly. He was waiting for me to say something. I locked our hands together and gave his a squeeze, encouraging him to go on since I could not trust my voice to not betray me.

"She's always hunting for them and taking pictures in places she thinks might be haunted. She _wants_ to find them! Who would do something totally stupid like that?"

"That bothers you."

It was not a question. America nodded anyway. "Of course, if she did find any, I'd take care of them. I'm the hero!" Opting to smirk to myself instead of injuring his ego by laughing, I affectionately called him an idiot. He shrugged and wrapped me in a tighter embrace. For a minute or so, he didn't speak. "I shouldn't have married her," he said finally.

"I thought you loved her."

America laughed bitterly. "Not enough to marry her! She's like an annoying little sister I always had to keep out of trouble." Funny, I thought it was the other way around.

"You had to marry her. It was best for your people." How I hated having to say those words that tasted like poison.

"But I love you."

"Didn't I tell you that they came before your own needs?" I lashed out, angry at myself for what I did. "Sometimes you have to do things you do not want to because it benefits your citizens. When your boss tells you to do something, you do it."

In sleeping with America, I was putting his union at risk and potentially harming his people. If anything went wrong, it would be my fault. I never realised how greatly my decisions impacted the world. My actions could topple entire nations–figuratively and literally. That was not something I thought of before. I knew I could hurt America, Belarus, and myself, but I never took any of our citizens into account. How could I have missed that? They were our purpose in life; all that ought to matter.

America kissed the top of my head and squeezed my hand. "Dude, calm down. I did exactly what I was told. I married Belarus. My boss never told me to stay away from you, so I don't have to. I'm in love with you. I'm not letting you go, no matter what."

He did not understand any of it. America was on cloud nine while I came crashing back into that pitch pit of despair that swallowed me whole. I needed to be careful, otherwise I could ruin everything we worked so hard to achieve. This path of destruction was only beginning, but I made no plans to stop now. Even if the rest of the world were to go up in flames, America and I would come out of this together. Perhaps I still had a bit of the British Empire in me after all.


End file.
